


I Called Your Name, Till The Fever Broke

by ladypigswagon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Erl King AU, Fairies, M/M, fae, fae!peter, mild NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles father and his mother, before she succumbed to the illness that stole the light from her eyes and the hair from her head, always told Stiles not to stray into the woods on the edge of town. It was something everyone knew, a fact of life here; you do not go into the woods. The woods are dangerous, full of things that hunt and hurt little boys and girls. That’s why you shouldn’t go into the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Called Your Name, Till The Fever Broke

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the short story The Erl King by Angela Carter. This is not a happy story.

Stiles father and his mother, before she succumbed to the illness that stole the light from her eyes and the hair from her head, always told Stiles not to stray into the woods on the edge of town. It was something everyone knew, a fact of life here; you do not go into the woods. The woods are dangerous, full of things that hunt and hurt little boys and girls. That’s why you shouldn’t go into the woods.

 

Stiles has sat on the edge of town and stared at the woods for hours. He’s never been brave enough to enter. As children often do, there have been dares, hushed and whispered to one another followed by pushing friends and enemies in the direction of the blackberry bushes in front of the elder trees. Jackson Whittemore plucked six blackberries last summer, popping them into his mouth and smiling like a cat that caught the canary. Lydia Martin placed a hand on the first elder tree, scratching the palm of her hand on the bark and grazing it. Scott McCall climbed a tree and almost fell out. Allison Argent walked to the second line of trees and picked a violet. She dried it and pressed it and wears it round her neck like a trophy.

 

Stiles is seventeen, not quite an adult but not still a boy either. He grew his hair out during the summer and it’s made him look older. No longer does he wear the buzz cut that honored his mother. He has grown into himself somewhat, slightly more comfortable in his pale skin but the coltish limbs and lack of grace are something that will never truly leave him.

 

It’s a cold day in late October; the leaves have fallen from the trees leaving them bare and skeletal. Withered blackberries dangle from discolored brambles; the grass is wilted or dying, replaced by slick mud. Stiles stands with Scott, Allison, Lydia and Jackson on the edge of the wood. Nearly becoming an adult has not tamed the curiosity, nor the childish antics of pushing people towards the wood. Their youth prevents them from heeding their parents’ warnings. They become words scattered to the wind like the falling leaves.

 

“I dare you to go deeper into the woods,” Jackson drawls, throwing an arm around Lydia and pulling her close to him. He oozes smugness like a pungent odor. “Deeper than Allison.”

 

“No one has gone deeper than me,” Allison replies with pride. She points to her violet encased in glass and smiles.

 

“Go on Stilinski,” Jackson says, “If a girl can do it.”

 

Allison scowls. Lydia punches Jackson in the arm, disentangling from his coat and standing a few feet away. Jackson rubs his arm and pouts.

 

“We’re not supposed to go into the woods,” Stiles says. There’s a hole in one of his gloves, on the index finger. He runs that finger over one of the dying leaves and it crumbles beneath his touch.

 

“We’re not supposed to go into the woods,” Jackson mimics, mocking Stiles with a falsely high tone. “You’re just a coward Stilinski.”

 

Stiles flexes his fingers, curling them into his palms to make fists. His mother warned him about the woods, about the dark creatures that lurk in the shadows waiting to prey on young supple flesh. On her deathbed, when her lungs were weak and voice rasping, Claudia made Stiles promise never to enter the wood. But being taunted by Jackson makes him reconsider his words. Nearly everyone in his class has fooled around outside the woods, snatching fruit and flowers and leaves as prizes for their bravery. Stiles isn’t a coward, he has been brave since the day his mother fell ill.

 

“I’m not a coward,” Stiles says.

 

“Prove it,” Jackson responds.

 

“Leave him alone,” Scott snaps, “He doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to.”

 

Jackson snorts.

 

“He won’t do it,” Jackson scoffs.

 

Stiles stalks forward, into the dark woods. Blood is pounding in his ear, a pounding fury that urges him forward, telling him to prove Jackson wrong by retrieving something from the darkest part of the wood. He hears Scott calling for him but ignores the scared tone. He will prove himself.

 

The cold autumn light filters through the dying leaves. It flickers as the sun disappears behind clouds bulging with rain. Acorn cups and rotting fruit squelch and crack under foot in the tan slime of mud and dead bracken, so soft from last night’s downpour. The air has a distinct chill in it but it is not yet the coldest time of year, so Stiles is comfortable in his dad’s old sheepskin coat and threadbare gloves. The wood isn’t quiet by any means, there’s the rustle of rabbits and call of birds. But there is a sense of peace, a sense of quiet that is comforting to Stiles in some misplaced way.

 

The woods start to thicken. Once Stiles stepped past the first line of trees, he felt enclosed, like being swallowed whole. This wood doesn’t have a path, that’s been lost to decades of disuse. Once inside, you must stay there until the wood lets you out again for there is no safe journey through here. The only trodden path is by the creatures that prowl, for no human wanders here. The wind whistles through the trees like the swishing of a woman’s skirt. A stream with banks of soft clay can be heard to Stiles left, but it is slow and sluggish, dark water preparing to turn to ice when winter comes.

 

Stiles wanders through the soft grey light, hand trailing through the thickets. He has yet to break the skin, but a few sky blue threads have been left on thorns. A reminder that Stiles has wandered this path, not the first human to ever do so, but the first in a while. Crows tumble and flutter above Stiles head, playing with each other like the puppies at Deaton’s vet clinic do.  

 

Stiles doesn’t know what he’s looking for but he wouldn’t say that his walking is aimless. There’s a pull in his chest, almost like the ache of swallowing starlight. He’s drawn to something but he doesn’t know what it is. He’s eager to find out. Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back.

 

The way the woods twist and turn, like a maze created from bracken and elder trees that end up making the perspectives curve and converge on a clearing. Stiles stumbles into it, blinking against the autumn light. Stiles knows as soon as he sees the occupants that they have been waiting for him from the moment he stepped into the wood, with that endless patience of immortal wild things, who have lived a long time and have an even longer time left.

 

It’s a garden in front of a wooden house, a cacophony of flowers, birds and beasts. The flowers are all wild, primroses and aconite, belladonna and foxglove.  They have been left to run rampant amongst the grass and despite the autumn weather; they remain bright and vibrant as if it is spring. Pearly doves, freckled wrens, ash soft wood pigeons, jet black crows, voles, shrews, tiny russet mice, golden dormice and oak brown rabbits with twitching noses rest at bare feet. A rust colored fox, tip of the tail a startling white, has its head resting on its front paws. Bright red squirrels intermingle with their grey cousins, running along the wooden slates of the roof. A goat the color of the rain clouds above bleats loudly which to Stiles sounds like an announcement of his presence, his own private fanfare.

 

Stiles velvet lips part in a soft oh as the man tending to the towering mulberry tree at the edge of the garden, turns to face him. The man smiles. He lays down his basket of mulberries. Bare are his feet, the rest of him clothed in soft woolen articles. His eyes are blue, as if he has stared at the crystal water of the river for too long.

 

There are some eyes that can eat you.

 

The rabbits scatter as the man walks forward. Stiles stays frozen, drawn in by the ethereal beauty and ice blue eyes.

 

“Hello,” the man says. His smile is sharp like a wolf’s.

 

“Hello,” Stiles replies dumbly. He blushes like a ripening strawberry.  “Your garden is beautiful.”

 

“Thank you,” the man says, tilting his head to one side. Stiles feels like he’s being examined, those eyes peering into his very soul, “What brings you to this part of the wood?”

 

“I’m here to prove myself,” Stiles says, voice breathless. The man smiles wider.

 

“How will you do that, little one?”

 

“Allison brought back a violet,” Stiles says, “I want something better.”

 

The man smirks, a knowing glint in his eye. He must know everything that goes on in this wood.

 

“How about a trade?” The man says, a hand trailing through the tangled web of flowers. “Tell me your name and I’ll give you a flower.”

 

“A name for a name,” Stiles replies, “Something else for the flower.”

 

“You’re a crafty one,” the man says. He’s amused. “I have many names, but you can call me Peter.”

 

“Stiles. What should I give you for the flower?”

 

Peter muses, making an exaggerated show of stroking his chin as if in deep contemplation. It makes Stiles lips part in a gentle smile.

 

“A promise,” Peter says, plucking a stem of lilac aconite. He holds it out to Stiles. “A promise that you’ll come back to visit me once more.”

 

Stiles takes the stem, feeling the warmth of Peter’s skin through the whole in his glove.

 

“I promise.”

 

 

 

Stiles is forbidden from leaving home for two weeks. His father is furious, understandably so. Stiles has been missing for hours. When he left the woods, night had fallen and a mist had settled over town like a smothering blanket. When Stiles had wandered into the high street, it was like the town exploded, a mess of sound and color and people. Stiles is escorted home by almost the entire town.

 

His dad yells at him for half an hour, cries and holds him close for two. Stiles apologizes whilst hiding the aconite in his coat pocket. He feels guilty for making his dad worry, but his promise to Peter burns in his mind. His mother warning is forgotten, replaced by the soft lilt of Peter’s voice. When Stiles falls asleep, Peter’s blue eyes are what’s waiting for him in the dark.

 

Stiles flaunts his aconite in class but doesn’t tell anyone about Peter, not even Scott. Jackson is in awe of him even if he’s begrudging of it. Stiles went into the woods and came back alive, in the eyes of youth that is something to be celebrated. Girls call him brave, touch his elbow when he speaks and laugh at his jokes.

 

The two weeks pass agonizingly slow. Stiles longs to return to the quiet of the woods, to the stillness and the peace. There was something comforting in just being there. He can see the woods from his bedroom window; he watches the crows’ circle above it. Sometimes he wishes he was a crow.

 

His father is keeping a close eye on him, but being the county Sheriff is a demanding job. Stiles takes his punishment for the two weeks, he knows that he made his father worry. After his mother died, the Sheriff drifted between being overprotective and under protective. Usually depending on how much liquor was left in the bottle. Stiles loves his father more than anything but the call of the woods is stronger. He made a promise and Stiles intends to honor it.

 

A few days after Stiles is allowed out of the house (school being the only exception) Stiles walks to the edge of town. Not to the edge of the woods, he’s aware of the eyes of the town following him with unblinking intensity. He needs to wait a little while longer, for when his father has a night shift.

 

Scott says he’s changed. That there’s something in Stiles eyes. Stiles ignores him, elbowing Scott in the side and asking him whether he’s talked to Allison about the winter formal yet. That always distracts Scott, who rambles more than Stiles does, about the color of Allison’s eyes and the smile that could launch a thousand ships. Stiles pops blackberries into his mouth as he listens, the sour sweetness coating his tongue.

 

 

Stiles steals out into the night when his father is called to a crime scene in the next town over. He carries a basket of food, pies and baked good that he’s made himself. He wears his sheepskin coat and threadbare gloves. He goes into the wood as trustingly as Red Riding Hood to her grandmother’s house, but he knows there are no wolves waiting to eat him in here. Peter wouldn’t allow that.

 

Peter is waiting for him, bathed in the moonlight, his feet bare once more. He smiles that wolf-like grin and welcomes Stiles into his home. It is a house with only two rooms, kitchen and bedroom as one with the bathroom as the other. He delights in Stiles home baking, thanking him over and over as he looks at each provision. The kitchen is filled with the chatter of birdsong, as one of the walls is lined with ornate cages. A wall of trapped birds.

 

“Isn’t it cruel to keep wild birds in cages?” Stiles asks, accepting the cup of mint and lemongrass tea that’s being offered to him. Peter just laughs, showing white, sharp teeth. The home is spic and span; clearly Peter values a tidy home. Flowers grow in between the wooden slats and bunches of herbs are stored in glass jars dotted about the house. Over the hearth hang bunches of drying mushrooms, they absorb the smoke that curls up from the fire and Peter says they are the same as the ones that grew on the elder tree that Judas himself hung from. These are the tales that he tells Stiles, appealing to Stiles half belief.

 

Peter knows all that goes on in the wood and the creatures in it. He tells Stiles about the wise toad who sits among the bulrushes in the stream in the spring that has a precious jewel stored in it’s mouth and if you sing to him, he’ll let you see it. He tells Stiles about the magpies that only steal pearl earrings and the dormice that can spin corn silk into gold. Stiles could easily fall asleep to the sound of Peter’s lilting voice, softer than velvet and warm like the crackling fire. When the sun starts to creep in, an unwelcome invasion in the cozy atmosphere, that is when Stiles has to return home. He leaves Peter with a kiss on the cheek and another promise to return.

 

 

Now when Stiles goes for walks, in the evening when the frost is starting to settle on the ground, and sometimes, more enticingly in the early morning with the November sun dappling the cold ground, his feet take him to Peter’s home. Mostly they talk, about the forest, about each other. Peter teaches Stiles how to skin a rabbit and make a meal. He sits behind Stiles at the spinning wheel, guiding his fingers to make beautiful thread, which they weave together into beautiful clothes. But other times, Stiles lies down on the quilted bed and is at the mercy of Peter’s skilled hands and tongue. Those days are the ones that seem to last for minutes and hours simultaneously. Peter reduces Stiles to a begging, sobbing mess but is always gentle with him in the aftermath, cleaning him up and Peter keeps him safe and content in his strong arms until Stiles has to leave.

 

At home, the Sheriff tries to talk to Stiles, tries to get his son to engage with him. But Stiles has no time for a father whose interest depends on the bottle. He does his homework, he behaves in class, his grades remain high but he doesn’t go out with friends anymore. Any spare moment he has is spent in the woods, in the arms of Peter. He loves his father but he loves Peter too.

 

“I haven’t seen Scott around in a while,” his father says over rabbit and thyme stew.

 

“Scott has Allison now,” Stiles replies. This is mostly true. Scott does spend a quantity of time with Allison but Stiles hasn’t exactly made an effort to see him. However this way of phrasing it makes it sound like Scott is the one who is preoccupied and not Stiles.

 

“Oh, well what about Jackson?”

 

“I don’t like Jackson.”

 

“Lydia?”

 

“Comes with an unfortunate case of Jackson.”

 

“Heather?”

 

“Not interested,” Stiles says, standing up to take his bowl back to the kitchen, “I’m going to do my homework.”

 

In reality, he slips out of his bedroom window and into Peter’s waiting embrace.

 

 

Stiles mother used to tell Stiles stories about the Erl King, the man of the forest who charmed young women into his bed, stealing them away from their homes. She told Stiles many stories. He forgets them all when Peter’s hands are pulling pleasure from him.

 

 

Stiles starts fighting with his father. Angry screaming matches, after which Stiles runs into the night and spends it with Peter, sobbing while Peter croons sweet soothing nonsense in his ear. Stiles starts skipping school days, learning the way of the wood. He feels at home here, among the elders and pines. The animals are trusting, letting him pet them. Peter is an expert on birds; he feeds them daily and makes them sing for Stiles. It never fails to make Stiles laugh in delight. The birds sing with such beauty but the notes are so melancholy. Stiles wants to ask why but always forgets.

 

 

“You could stay with me,” Peter says; voice a gentle lull like the crashing of waves on a calm sea. Stiles turns his head to stare at Peter’s face. Peter’s gaze remains to the star strewn sky above. They’re lying in the garden, surrounded by the fragrant embrace of the grass and flowers. Dandelions tickle Stiles cheeks; make his nose twitch and scrunch.

 

“Forever,” Stiles whispers, like if he says the words too loud they’ll crack as if they are ice under running water.

 

“If you want,” Peter replies. He turns his head to face Stiles, pressing soft kisses to Stiles face. Hands grip Stiles slender hips, pressing possessive bruises into porcelain skin. Stiles likes to prod them when he gets out of the shower, tiny galaxies of indigo and midnight that stand out starkly against their canvas. Marks of ownership that make Stiles flush with pleasure, smirking in silent victory. They’re always hidden from his father’s eyes. But never from Peter’s.

 

Peter sinks sharp teeth into Stiles plush bottom lip, draws bittersweet blood from shallow cuts. The white moon illuminates the writhing mass of their embraces. Peter sinks his teeth in Stiles throat to make him scream.  He strips Stiles to nakedness, relearns his body with a determination that feels all encompassing. His embrace is protective.

Dominating.

                   Grasping.

                                   Craving.

                                                Selfish.

 

Sometimes the birds, locked in their gilded cages, all singing, strike a cord.  

 

Peter’s touch both consoles and devastates him. Stiles can feel his heart pounding a rapid tattoo against his chest, matching the passion of Peter’s thrusts. The moonlight dapples their shuddering flanks, bathing them in a silvery glow. Stiles is floating on a river of pleasure that he aches to baptism himself in. Peter is the one to hold him under.

 

 

It is growing colder. November leaks into December. Soon it will be Christmas. The trees are truly bare and even Peter’s garden must die. It withers with the grace of an ageing actress, a beauty that holds despite the severity of life. Gone are the kaleidoscopic grasses and flowers, replaced with only evergreens. Snowdrops are the only flowers that grow now, crystal tears on frozen earth. The blackbird and the thrushes seek Peter’s garden as he feeds them corn. Winter creates slim pickings and Peter tends to their needs. He feeds Stiles just as heartily.

 

Stiles hasn’t gone home for a while. Time passes differently here; it tends to be languid like molasses dripping into a bowl.  He wears the clothes he made with Peter, spun from silken thread. Peter has done away with Stiles other clothes, except the sheepskin coat. Stiles is adamant about that, the coat is not to be touched. Peter respects that wish. The coat hangs on a hook by the door. Sometimes when Peter is hunting and Stiles is lonely; he wraps himself in the coat that smells like his father’s aftershave even after all these years.

 

He misses his father.

 

                                He misses Scott.

 

But then Peter returns home to shower Stiles in affection and sweet kisses and Stiles doesn’t feel lonely anymore. Peter lays out a succulent feast, steaming stews made from the virtues of the forest. Peter feeds Stiles with his deft fingers, the light of the fire flickering in ice blue eyes. Stiles is drawn to the dark pupil, the absence of light that pulls Stiles in.

 

Eyes blue as sapphires. Blue as the deepest part of the ocean.

 

What big eyes Peter has. Peter is no lycanthrope but the radiance inside those luminous irises would suggest otherwise. Stiles knows that Peter is more than human. When he looks into those eyes, he knows, and sometimes Stiles feels that looking into those eye is what will trap him forever. Like an insect stuck in amber. That black hole in the middle of Peter’s eyes are endless, an empty void surrounded by such a pretty blue. Sometimes Stiles feels like he will fall into it.

 

 

Peter is weaving a cage. A gilded cage to house a new singing bird.

 

“Amber, to match your beautiful eyes,” Peter says, weaving with clever fingers. The bird in their cages chitter and screech. Peter hushes them with a simple soothing sound. It is a pretty cage for a pretty bird.

 

Stiles goes to the river. It is frozen now. The water was so sluggish that one day it stopped. Stiles presses a finger to the ice, letting its hyperborean chill leak into the skin. Stiles presses until the ice cracks. Stiles feels like this ice, like he is shattering from the inside out. He is a china teacup in an earthquake. He hugs his arms around his body, breathing in the scent of his father. The sheepskin coat is keeping him warm. The words of his mother ring in his ears, louder than ever before.

 

_Do not go into the woods Stiles, the Erl King will steal you away._

Once Stiles knows what Peter means to do to him, his is overcome with a terrible melancholy and deep fear for he loves Peter with all his heart but has no desire to join the entombment choir in his home. He doesn’t want to be a singing voice in an ornate cage. Stiles cries bitterly, his salty tears boring holes in the fractured ice. Peter treats his birds with tender hands, keeps them fed and watered. Stiles is not a bird. Peter’s words were his enticements, his embraces a foreshadowing for his cage. But perhaps in his arrogance, he assumed Stiles wouldn’t become aware. Stiles knew the Erl King would do him grievous harm when his foot first stepped into the clearing.

 

Stiles knows now that the birds do not sing, they only cry. Mourning the loss of their flesh, their families; trapped in an endless woods that will not let them leave. They cannot leave unless the Erl King lets them. So Stiles must make him.

 

 

Sometimes Peter will lay his head in Stiles lap and let Stiles stroke his head. The birds scream their melancholy song. Today Stiles shushes them. Strokes Peter’s hair and sings himself. He sings a sweet lullaby. It’s a song that his mother taught him when Stiles first learnt to speak. It lulls Peter into a heavy sleep. Once Peter is sleeping, Stiles ties him to a chair and circles it with iron.

 

His hands shake.

 

Stiles breaks all the locks on the cages. Shatters them into irretrievable pieces. The birds are free and they return once more to human flesh and bone. Beautiful girls and boys, fresh faced youths with bewildered expressions, each with the mulberry imprint of Peter’s teeth at their necks. They run from the house, a herd of startled deer running to the homes that may have forgotten them. They won’t know unless they return.

 

Peter wakes slowly, then all at once. His sharp eyes flick to the empty, broken cages and he sighs heavily.

 

“Were you jealous?” Peter asks. Stiles runs a finger in the ash of the dead fire. He stands, kicking away fragmented cage to clear his path.

 

“Did you love me?” Stiles asks, hand on the doorframe.

 

“Yes,” Peter replies. It’s an honest answer. “I always will.”

 

“Do you hate me now that I’m leaving?”

 

“Do you hate me knowing what I’ve done?”

 

“No.” Another honest answer.

 

“Then neither do I,” Peter says. He breaks the feeble ropes with relative ease. The iron circle will not hold him long.

 

“I cannot become a bird,” Stiles says, “I will not be caged.”

 

He turns, pulling the sheepskin coat tighter around his frame. It has begun to snow outside, thick swirling flakes.

 

“Will you return to me?” Peter asks, “When you have lived your life and cannot live any longer? Will you come back to me?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Stiles closes the door behind him. The flakes blur his vision but he knows his course. The notion of home is his lighthouse. It guides him through the wood.

 

The town is covered in a layer of crisp, white snow. The lights are rosy and merry. Stiles walks to the Christmas tree in the town square. He reaches out a hand to touch the sharp pine. He wanders in the empty streets, listening to the snatches of singing and general contentment. He knows where his father will be. After Stiles mother died, they have spent every Christmas at the McCall’s. He treks to the bright red door, less than a street over from his home. His real home.

 

The house is somewhat subdued but Stiles can smell the sugary sweet scent of Mrs. McCall’s famous Christmas pudding. He raps his knuckles against the peeling door. He hears the scraping of a chair. The soft thud of footprints. The door swings open.

 

“Stiles!”

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
